Right now the battery for my cell phone needs recharging, and I can’t make or receive calls. This rare event gives me time to reflect on how this marvelous device has changed my life-not by making communication easier, but by providing a socially acceptable way to avoid it.
At breakfast, for example, my teenager, Melissa, wants to discuss her problems: with math; with John, who is pursuing her; and with Frank, who is not pursuing her. Actually, these problems are listed in reverse order to Melissa’s priorities.
“Of course,” I reply, “right after I make this call.”
I flip open the phone and dial up my broker, who never, ever says this is a good day to stay on the sidelines, but always has a long list of good buys churned out by the research department. By interspersing a few questions about one or another of his recommendations, I make the call last until Melissa finishes breakfast and runs to catch her ride to school.
“We’ll talk at dinner,” I shout to her disappearing ponytail as I flip closed the phone.
Ellen, my wife, comes to the table with the announcement that both Fred, Melissa’s younger brother, and Melissa are behind in their homework and that they spend way too many hours watching television and surfing the Internet.
“What are we going to do about it?” she wants to know.
Before I have to confess that I don’t know, my cell phone rings. I shrug, pick it up and with a flick of the wrist put another sticky situation on indefinite hold.
I’m a little late for the commuter train, mostly because I was chatting on the phone as I walked to the station. Ordinarily I get the morning paper and digest the editorial, news and sports sections by the time I get to my stop, but recently, especially if I’m late, I forgo the paper because there are so many people I like to contact before I get to the office. I don’t discuss current events with anyone on the train anymore because everyone is hooked into their phones. Only the declarer in the bridge game has put his phone aside. If he had another trump, he could talk on the phone and make his contract at the same time.
I get to my building and everyone in the elevator is on the phone. I don’t have anyone I need to talk to, but I don’t want to appear unimportant or unproductive so I make a call, ask for someone I know isn’t there, and say loudly that I am returning his call but otherwise will be unreachable the rest of the day.
I stroll into the office and see the new receptionist whose name I can’t remember, so I put the phone to my ear, nod hello and mumble into the phone and escape into my office.
After successfully shuffling papers for a couple of hours, I go to meet a product representative for lunch. I have to deliver bad news: We have decided to purchase from one of his competitors, and he has seen the last order of the year from us. We get seated and, after the usual small talk, his phone rings. During his short conversation, our water and menus are delivered. After we study the lunch specials, the waiter appears just as my host’s phone rings again. After putting his caller on hold, he orders, then resumes the conversation.
I can’t decide whether to eat more rolls or juggle the three pieces of silverware. However, I’m thankful for the respite; I don’t have to give him the bad news yet. I might even be able to hold off until after we finish eating. That would make it less awkward.
The waiter brings our food, and we both begin eating, he, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and eating with the other. I don’t know what he’d do if he ordered something he had to cut with a knife. Maybe he has learned to order only food that can be shoveled up with a single utensil. (I’ll have to remember that; it might come in handy sometime.)
We’re about finished eating when he concludes his conversation. The coffee arrives along with his request for my next order. Before I can reply, my phone rings. Oh blessed ring! Some phones don’t ring but play a tune. At times like this I think my phone should play Beethoven’s 9th, “Glory be to God.”
It’s my wife. Fred has a soccer game after school, and she can’t pick him up because her dental appointment was rescheduled. Could I do it? I’d have to catch the early train. This is marvelous. I can’t answer the question until I get my schedule for the afternoon. I’ll have to call my secretary and then call my wife back. I apologize to my host–“This won’t take but a couple of minutes”–as I dial the office.
The check comes and then disappears with the host’s credit card. I call my wife and tell her I can make it but I need directions to the pickup point. I could find this place as easily as I could find my garage, but I tell her I want to make sure because they play on different fields depending on the game and the season. The credit card returns and the host signs the tab and checks his watch. I take elaborate notes about the directions to the soccer field until I see him check his watch again. Good, he must have another appointment. I flip my phone closed, check my watch and announce that I’m late for an appointment at the office.
We both stand, and he inquires about the order for next year as we head for the door. “There’s a cab,” I holler and signal the car to stop. As I climb in I say, “Thanks for the lunch. I’ll send you a memo about the order this afternoon. OK?”
Before he can reply, I give the cabby the address and we’re off.
“Boy, that was close,” I say to myself. “I won’t even have to think of justifications now. I’ll just send him a memo saying we’re going another way.”
Later, as I take the train home, I note the number of people dialing and chatting, avoiding eye contact. They either look down at their phones, madly punching in numbers, or have their phones to their ears looking skyward, as if talking to an unseen deity. I let mine ring and the caller ID takes over and stores the numbers for later reference. These will play a key role in buffering my evening relationships.
I pick up Fred at soccer, and here comes the coach. He’s going to tell me I have to talk to my son and get him to focus more because with his ability he should be scoring many more goals. I’ve heard this song before so I flip open the phone and start talking to one of those numbers I saved for just this kind of occasion, open the car door and motion for Fred to get in. I wave to the coach, shrug my shoulders and take off.
Fred has his Walkman going, so I shut down the phone and drive home in silence. It’s a strange feeling, this silence, but every once in a while I can stand it. It gives me a chance to think about the evening with my family. My wife will want to discuss the kids’ school work, Melissa will have her agenda, and Fred will want to talk about getting a car.
But first–I really have to return those calls from this afternoon.
